I Really Hate It
by cheerfullyquarrelsome
Summary: It's cold. I mean, sure, it's the middle of February, so of course it's gonna be cold. But it's really goddamn cold! I swear I'll never feel my fingers and toes again...


_A day in the life of Skittery I wrote a while ago, but am still pretty proud of so I thought I'd share it. Got some ideas from other stories, but it's mostly just me puttin myself in Skittery's shoes and thinkin' about what he would be thinkin' about maybe. ;) Thanks for reading._

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It's cold. I mean, sure, it's the middle of February, so of course it's gonna be cold. But it's really goddamn cold! I swear I'll never feel my fingers and toes again. I lost the sensation in the tips a good while ago. Even the lodgin' house ain't enough to keep me warm anymore.

I blow into my cupped hands and stamp my feet against the cobblestones as a last attempt to keep frostbite at bay. You know what I really hate, though? That everyone else seems to love this so much. _Summer stinks and winter's waitin'_... yea right. I'd rather be too hot than too cold any day. When all I have to wear to bed are my longjohns and that's it. The haziness that comes at the end of the day, and all you wanna do is stare up into the sky and pretend you see the stars that people keep tellin' you are up there. Just light up a cigarette and relax in the pressing heat after a long say a' sellin' papes.

Now, the only way I don't freeze to death is to wear all the clothes I own, which ain't much, and keep myself movin' so my blood don't stop pumpin' in my veins. Now ain't that just dandy? Yea, I don't think so either.

"Hey, kid!" I turn around quickly, eager to greet a prospective buyer. I ain't sold a damn pape all day. A short, fat guy walks up to me, huffin' and puffin' from the long walk from the buildin' across the street. He has one of those fancy watches out, as if he has to be somewhere real important, and a bowler hat llike Specs, only this one is new and ain't scuffed at all. His shoes are polished to a shine, too. I can almost see my face in 'em. Real hoity-toity as Jack would say.

I put on my best smile, my hopes risin'. Maybe he would have only a nickel, or even a dime. I, of course, don't have change for that. I ain't really a cute little kid no more, but I'm fast enough to get away with more than was supposed to be given to me. Anyway, I'm gettin' ahead of myself here.

"Would ya like to buy a pape, sir? Big fire at Milton Warehouse-"

"Yes, that's fine." He fishes around in his pocket a bit before groaning, bendin' over and clutchin' his hand to his chest. Shit, what if the guy's havin' a heart attack or somethin'? I don't know nothin' about people gettin' sick like that. What if the guy dies, right here in front a' me, and I can't do nothin' about it? That would stink, especially 'cause I ain't gonna get any more buyers if I'm the newsie who made this guy croak.

I'm feelin' kinda sorry that all I'm thinkin' about is money while this guy's dyin' when all of a sudden he hops up like he's as healthy as could be, rips a paper from my hand, and takes off with it across the street. I'm standin' there, my mouth hangin' open in surprise, before I come to my senses and realize he just ripped me off. I just got ripped off by a guy with shoes I could see myself in.

I'm just about to follow him to get my money, I'll soak him if I have to, when a carriage rushes past me, sprayin' water all over, and I'm drippin' from all the slushy, dirty, watery shit that's all over the street. So the next thing I know, I'm shiverin' down to my bones and all the rest of my papes are on the side of the street, soakin' up all the street gunk I was talkin' about a minute ago.

I pick 'em up, but they're fallin' to bits right as I'm lookin'. Great, now I'm gonna have to get the money back for those papes somehow. I guess I could ask Race or Kid to spot me at least two bits for tomorrow, but no matter how glad they'd be to do it for me, I hate askin' people for money. I really hate it. But when ya live the way I do, I guess you don't have much of a choice, do ya?

I shake my head and walk away from the soggy remains of my papes, thinkin' of that guy who did this to me. You know, he probably had hundreds of dollars to have a hat like that, and those shiny shoes, and he couldn't even spare one lousy penny to pay for a goddamn newspaper. It just don't make any sense to me.

If I had all that money, if I wanted to buy a pape from some newsie, I would give him a whole quarter. No, more than that. How about ten whole dollars! I don't think I've ever seen that much money all at once. And I'd be willin' to give it away if I was better off than I am. Hey, I ain't sayin' I'm a saint or nothin' like that, but I'd be respectable enough to pay for my paper. Why do the rich sons of bitches never feel like they have to do nothin' respectable? I hate that. And I'd actually thought maybe I would get a nickel outa this. See, that's why I don't try to look forward to nothin'. 'Cause every time you do, it just leads to disappointment. I hate disappointment.

So, tryin' to forget I have nothin' but some lint in my pocket, I put the bill of my cap down over my eyes and keep walkin'. I'm starting to get cold even walkin' now, on account of my wet clothes, and I can't stop my teeth from chatterin', but I don't think about it. I know that if I think about it, it's just gonna make me angry, and I don't feel like bein' angry right now. So I keep walkin', 'cause it's the only thing I can do now.

Eventually I get to the front of Tibby's, even though I don't even know that's where I was headed in the first place. I lean forward and rest my head against the glass, kinda like those little kids you see lookin' in the windows of candy shops, wantin' somethin' they'll never have. Their little noses squished up against the glass, like if they lean far enough in they'll be able to get in there. I used to be one of those little kids. Now I'm just lucky to get a decent meal sometimes. I was lookin' at regular good like it was candy. I think that must be a bad sign in anyone's book.

I can tell it's warm in there by the way the glass is all fogged up, and I really want to just go in and chomp down on whatever they're sellin' today. I'm not a picky guy when it comes to food. But I know you can't go in there unless you're intendin' to buy somethin', and even though I'm about willin' to trade in my pinky toe for a nice warm cup of coffee, I don't think they'd accept the offer. So I have to stay out here and wait to catch some deathly sickness. It honestly wouldn't surprise me by now.

I think about goin' back to the lodgin' house, but I really don't wanna be yelled at by Kloppman 'cause I would have to ask to stay there for free just one more night. Hey, I always pay the man back, I don't know why he gets so snippy about it. But all the same, I don't want to go back there without even a penny to show for myself. I can't ask one a' the guys to help me out 'cause they're probably all over the city by now and I don't wanna go walkin' that far, especially when I got nothin' to sell.

Oh great, now I'm thinkin' about it again. It's just like I said before, when I think about things too hard, it makes me depressed. And I'm not in the mood for it today. So I start walkin' again, 'cause it's the only thing I can do. The only thing that gets my mind off a' how shitty life can be. Well, that, and a good smoke, but I'm all out and I don't have the money to get another pack.

Maybe I can go down to Sheepshead and bum a couple off Race. When he wins, he becomes pretty generous with his stash. Maybe I could even help him, even though I know more about what comes out of a horse's ass then how to pick a good one to bet on. Well, it can't be that hard. Just close your eyes, spin around, and whichever horse you see first when you open your eyes is the one to bet on. Okay, Race probably has a different way a' doin' it, but that'd be my way.

I'm seriously considerin' goin' down there to see how Race is farin' when I hear a noise behind me. I turn around, and I really shouldn't be surprised when I see the Delancey brothers creepin' up on me, but I am. I haven't seen 'em since we won the strike and Weasel got the axe. I'd assumed they'd crawled back under whatever rock they'd come from in the first place. But here they are, and they look as happy to see me as I'm happy to see them.

"Heya Skittery!" Oscar whines, giving me an evil grin. He really does have an ugly mug. I don't think even a real nice smile would help him much with that face. Morris ain't much better, now that I can see 'em both in front a' me. You know that expression, looks like you got hit with an ugly stick? Well, I think whoever first came up with that was lookin' at the Delancey brothers when they said it. They look like they been hit with a couple a' those things.

Right now I kinda wish I had one a' them ugly sticks with me, 'cause I don't got much for protection besides me fists, and I don't think they'll do me much good against those brass knuckles Morris is slippin' onto his fingers.

"Hey boys," I say, real friendly. I know that ain't gonna stop 'em from beatin' the shit outa me, but out of all the things I can't do, I can talk. My talkin's been pretty good at distractin' people long enough for me to get away. Even though I'm still tryin' to act all friendly, and I kinda hoped the bums'd fall for it, they keep advancin' all threatenin' and everything. Whe Morris starts doin' that creepy laugh he does, when he's either gonna crack someone upside the head or violate some poor unsuspectin' broad, I think I'll open my mouth again to see if it'll get me out of this particular beatin'.

"It's real nice seein' ya. I thought you'd falled off the face of the earth after old uncle Weasel lost his job. How've you been doin', huh? Hope ya haven't been too bad off. You know, scroungin' for food in alleyways would be a bad step down from bein' a scab."

Their faces scrunched up and became even more unattractive, and I realized that that probably hadn't been the smartest thing that coulda come outa my mouth. They keep comin' closer and closer, and I start frantically lookin' for a way out, when I feel my mouth start to open again. "And I thought the two a' you couldn't look any worse than ya had back then. You know, sometimes it's more fun bein' wrong."

"I'm pretty an 'oh shit' kinda look is on my face just then, after I realize what exactly I had said, so I decide now is the time to make a run for it. So let me tell ya, I coulda done it if it had been summer, but because a' all these goddamn bulky clothes I have to wear to keep from freazin' to death, Oscar's able to grab the back of my jacket and yank me to the ground. Now, bein' on the ground is not a good position to be in, especially in the middle of a fist fight. So as far as I figure, I'm dead meat. But not before I take one of 'em out with me.

So as they're walkin' up, fixin' to pummel me, I do this real nifty move where ya swing your leg out and catch one a' the other guys in the ankle, knockin' him down. Well, it works on Oscar. It's pretty funny, watchin' him splash and splutter around in the puddle he landed in until Morris picks me up by the front of my shirt and slams his fist, brass knuckles and all, into my stomach. The layers I have on pad some of the blow, but not much. And gettin' the air knocked outa ya that hard is not anyone's idea of fun.

So there I am, practically on my knees tryin' to suck in as much air as I can when Oscar comes up and starts wailin' on me some more. I can taste blood in my mouth where I'd bitten my cheeck as his fist collided with my face, that real coppery taste like a new penny. I hate that taste. I start to think that's the worst part 'till my body starts catchin' up with what's happenin' and hurts like hell.

It seems like it takes forever before they decide I'm not worth the trouble to actually kill. They finally leave me layin' in that puddle, not even botherin' to search me 'cause they know I ain't got nothin'. God, now everything hurts, from the top of my head to my toes. I hate it when people say that 'cause it can't be true, you can't hurt everywhere, but I do right now.

When I try to most it hurts even more so I stay still. Maybe I'll just lay here forever. I don't think anyone'd miss me. Nobody can even see me in this goddamn alley that I'm in, so I know I ain't gonna be helped. So I'm just gonna lie here until I die, which'll be soon, by the way my head's poundin. Goddamn Oscar and Morris. And all because a' my big mouth. I think I failed to mention earlier that when I talk, sometimes things come out that get me in loads a' trouble, from gettin' smacked in the face by Racetrack or beaten to a pulp by the Delanceys. I just wish I'd had the chance to choose which one I got.

It's only a few minutes until the cold really starts gettin' to me again. So it's either get my ass up outa the puddle or become a piece a' ice. I don't know much, but I don't think it'd be too nice dyin' like that. You're real cold and then you die. I hate bein' cold, and if I'm gonna die, I'm gonna do it my own way, and I don't wanna die cold. So I get up real slow, as if that's gonna stop it from hurtin' so much. It don't.

I can help but moan as I lean against the brick of the buildin' behind me for support. I'm even more wet with the street crud than I was before, and one a' the knees of my pants are ripped, and when I look closer I see that so are my longjohns, and my knee is all cut up and bleedin' from me landin' on it. This really makes me mad. They knew I don't got money to replace stuff like clothes. I had to save up for a whole month to get a hat that actually fit. Do you know how much pants cost? A lot more than two bits, that's for sure. Goddamn Delanceys. I really hate those guys.

As soon as I think I can walk without fallin' down on my face, I get outa that stinkin' alley and hobble down the street. My damp clothes are stickin' to me, all wet and bloody, and I'm just so miserable with no money and nowhere to go, that it reminds me of when I was little, before I became a newsie. I know what I said before, about not thinkin' too hard about anythin' 'cause it makes me depressed, and that's true. But I have these days, and usually they're real rotten days like this one, where I get to thinkin', and I can't stop.

I get to thinkin' about when my mother died when I was around eleven. Back then I would cry all the time about it 'cause I was old enough to know what was goin' on. I knew that my mother was never comin' back, and that's your mother, you know? It's like, no matter what, if you got your mother right there with you, nothin' bad can happen to ya. Well, when my mother died, bad things did happen.

My old man didn't know how to handle it I guess, 'cause he started drinking like a fish. I don't really know if fish drink, but I saw that expression in the papes the other day, when it was talkin' about the President or somethin' like that. I just know it sold real good.

Anyway, that drinkin' like a fish expression seems to fit what my dad did. He was puttin' away two or three bottles of whiskey a week, which I think is a feat for anybody. Soon, that just wasn't enough, and violent rages that I think everyone gets got the better of him.

He started off just whackin' me in the head and kinda kickin' me a little when I was down, but then he started comin' at me with his belt and then a fuckin' horse whip. I have the marks on my back to remind me of it. You know, no matter how old or smart I thought I was back then, I never could understand why that was happenin' to me.

I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me or nothin'. I get outa there before the old bastard could kill me. Because a' that I consider myself lucky. Well, on some days, at least. On days like this one, I kinda with that he had killed me so I wouldn't have to walk around in the streets soakin' wet and bleedin' with no money. Sometimes I think whatever death has in store for me would be better than what I have goin' for me now. A dime a day, a few black eyes, and a promising future at the factory.

But here I am, gettin' all depressed like I said would happen. I always get down in the dumps when I think about my past, or the future, for that matter. When you do what I do here in New York, I guess you gotta be a in the moment kinda guy, where you just think about sellin' your next pape, and maybe about where or even if you're gonna eat that night. By now I think that's the only thing keepin' me as sane as I am.

I ain't sayin' I'm a regular nutjob or nothin' like that. All I'm sayin' is sometimes my brain ain't runnin' on all four cylinders. There's another phrase from a pape. See, who needs an education when you can learn from your job? As long as I sell all the papes I buy, I can just read 'em for free. But that thought just makes me think a' the papes I droppped this mornin', and gets me in another foul mood. I didn't even know it was possible, but it apparently is, 'cause now I'm all sulky and thinkin' about things some more, which is never good to add to an already bad mood.

And I ain't always in a bad mood. I'm not 'glum and dumb' as Race put it. I just don't like to get my hopes up, like I said before. I like to look at things the way they are and not the way they could potentially be in the future. I mean, sure, we won the strike, but right before that was a whole wad a' disappointment. We even thought Jack'd become a scab. That was the worst blow we coulda got, 'cause he started the whole thing, him and Davey. He did come back and we won, but how many things like that can happen in a lifetime? The way I see it, that was my one good thing, and I'm only seventeen. So what do I got to look forward to? Okay, I know I sound kinda glum, but I'm just a realist, ya know? And I really hate disappointment.

Instead a' thinkin', I just try to clear my head and keep walkin'. When I'm not sellin' papes I just walk straight ahead, lookin' at the ground right in front of me and nothin' else. This is so I ain't tempted to think of anything, and there's less of a chance that somethin'll get me in trouble.

When I bother to raise my head, I see that big old statue of that Horace Greeley guy. I don't know who he was but he must've been pretty important to have a statue made for him. Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to be so famous everybody knows who you are, like that Greeley guy, or Pulitzer.

Even though we won the strike, he's still got all those thousands a' dollars and his own paper. I mean, he's makin' more money every day, and we still gotta work like dogs to survive, to keep from havin' to live on the streets. And all we got out of it, that whole big strike, was a lousy ten cents more. Ten cents that we already had. So, really, Pulitzer woulda won either way. It's always like that for the people who have money, people who are known by everyone else. I wanna be someone with money who people know, but that'll never happen. Now I wish I hadn't looked up and seen that statue, because it got me thinkin' again.

But I guess the statue's okay there. I mean, I've seen some of the little kids like Tumbler and sometimes Boots sleepin' on there in the summer if they don't have enough money to pay Kloppman for lodging. Tumbler's a good kid. He seems to look up to me for some reason or another. I mean, I don't mind it or nothin', but I don't necessarily think he should wanna be like me. I care about the kid, so I don't want him to have the miserable life that I do. He can carry the walkin' stick around if he wants to, but nothin' much more than that. And if I tell him to strive to be better, to aim higher than I did, he'll listen. That's why I like little kids.

Yea, I don't go around shoutin' it from the rooftops, but I do like little kids. Not in a bad, inappropriate way or nothin', I just think they're nice. They're little enough so that they believe that you tell 'em to believe, and they don't have to think about what a shithole their life will probably be like. They think about the present, like the rest of us try to do, and even if they have a hard life, they think it'll get better, that it is better, even if it ain't true.

They're just so innocent, the way the rest of us used to be. The way I used to be. I think if we all thought like little kids, then the world would be a lot better. They also don't think about hurtin' each other all the time. Not until someone else gets to 'em and shows 'em how to do it. I hate when people do that. My old man did it to me and look how I turned out. I wish thee never had to be any of that violent shit ever. And if no one did it anymore, then the little kids wouldn't learn how to do it, so they wouldn't. That's probably not right, but it's how I like to think, and no one else can tell me how I'm supposed to think.

I walk up to that big old statue and stare into that guy's face, and for some reason I wanna destroy it, make it go away. I've never been one to deface public property, but he's just sittin' there all smug, a reminder of what I'll never be. I just wanna smash it to little tiny bits so I don't have to see it. Because it's just one a' those things that I end up thinkin' about, and when I think, I get mad.

I know there ain't nothin' I can do to get rid of that statue, though. It's made of some real sturdy metal. Hell, I'd be lucky just to scribble on it with a little piece a' chalk and have it stay. Just to make sure, I give the bottom of it a little kick, and then a bigger one. But all that does is gets my toes to throbbin'. If I have to be cold all the time, I wish that'd at least take the feelin' outa my feet, 'cause apparently they still got some.

"Hey!" A real gruff kinda voice called out to me. I know it's to me 'cause whenever someone calls out t me who don't know me, they have that same kinda voice. That real condescendin' kinda voice that sounds like they're already assumin' I'm doin' somethin' bad, even though I'm not. So my shoulders get all hunched up like they do when I wanna just disappear, and I think about runnin', but I know that'd just get me in more trouble. Just remember what happened the last time I tried runnin' away.

So I stay put and turn around real reluctant, and you know what I see? A bull! One a' them was the one who caught me takin' out my aggressions on that goddamn statue. I'm tellin' ya, it's a good thing I didn't try runnin'. They always know you've done somethin' bad when you run.

"Hey, what do you think you're doin', kid?" He trots on up to me like what I'm doin' is real important for him to stop, even though I ain't doin' much of anything. He pauses when he comes up, lookin' me in the eye, and I guess he wants me to answer, so I just shrug.

"Nothin, sir," I say to him, tryin' to act all innocent like one a' those little kids I was thinkin' about earlier. Too bad I ain't so good at it. I know, 'cause he's eyein' me all suspiciously, lookin' me up and down. What, is he plannin' on fightin' me? Well, he ain't much taller than me, and he looks kinda scrawny. I could probably take him if he didn't have that handy stick thing them bulls use to hit people with.

Besides, it probably wouldn't be a great idea to get in a fist fight with one a' these guys. That would be sure to get me a spot at the Refuge. Ive never been there, but from what Jack's told me, I don't think I want to get up close and personal with the place.

"Yea, it better be nothin', mister. I don't want to see you attempting to desecrate this piece of government property again." He's sayin' it like it's the worst thing anyone could ever do ever, and that just rubs me the wrong way, and my gums start flappin' again, and I can't stop it.

"Hey, I wasn't doin' nothin', I was just tryin' to scrape some a' the crud off my shoes," I argue, not real truthful. Hey, as long as ya don't get caught, you can lie all yea want. It's how you stay alive in this city. But it's only if they believe ya.

"I don't think so, kid. Now I don't want to see you around here anymore." He nods and lifts his chin so he's lookin' down on me, and that really makes me angry. This guy can't just tell me where I can't go. This is one a' my favorite sellin' spots.

"Hey, you can't do that. I wasn't doin' nothin', so I don't have to listen to you!" After that comes flyin' outa my big gob, he looks mad, like he really is gonna hit me this time. It's even clearer that he's gonna get violent when he takes out that big stick I was talkin' about. Shit, now I think I'm in trouble.

"Hey!" he yells again, and this time he's pokin' me in the chest and gettin' all close to me, sneerin' in my face. "You get outa here. And if I see you here again, I'll throw ya in the Refuge."

He shoves me away from him and I stumble on the cobblestones, almost fallin' on my ass. When he starts comin' after me with that goddamn stick, I finally find enough sense to get the hell outa there and turn around, bookin' it to the market place around the corner of the closest building. When I get out of sight of that fuckin' bull, I take my hat off and wipe my sleeve across my forehead.

For the life a' me, I don't know why bulls have to go and pick on the little guys, like us newsies and all the sweatshop kids and all the ones that helped us win the strike. There are so many other guys that are committin' all sorts of crimes and they get away with it because the people who are supposed to be regulatin' that sorta thing and puttin' the bad guys in jail are busy pickin' on us. While people are gettin' killed and stuff by real criminals, we're gettin' in trouble for stealin' food 'cause we're starving to death and tryin' to wipe the gunk off our shoes. This goddamn system don't make any sense. I hate that.

When I get to walkin' again, it gets harder to ignore all the people bustlin' around me and pushing and shoving. Why do all these people come out now, in the middle of February? When it's cold and the real bitter wind cuts through any amount of clothing you have on, leavin' ya shiverin', your teeth chatterin' so hard it's all you can hear. It's a ridiculous time to come outa your house. But I guess some of us have to get out. Like us, sellin' papes is all we got, every damn day of the year. Just 'cause the weather stinks don't mean we can get off work.

One of the good things about massive crowds of people is that it ain't so cold when I'm right in the middle of all of 'em. Sure, they're loud and some of 'em smell, but I live in a lodgin' house full a' other boys; I'm used to it. Even if I wasn't I wouldn't complain 'cause body heat's the only real source of warmth I get in the winter time. Even if it don't smell so nice, I'll take it.

Another thing that's good about 'em is that if you make sure to zigzag a little bit and not cause to much of a ruckus, you can get lost real good. No one'll ever find ya if you don't want 'em to. Like if you're bein' chased by some bulls or the Delancey brothers since they're back, it'll be like you're clear on the other side a' town when you're really only a few feet away from 'em, if you're careful. And when you're bein' chased by someone and ya don't wanna be seen, of course you're gonna be careful, right?

Well, right now I ain't runnin' from anybody, unless that damn bull's gonna go and follow me, so I can just walk around mindin' my own business and hope that nothin' else I do will draw attention to myself. I just wish I had maybe one to two papes to stick under my arm, just for show, even. Sometimes people get suspicious when they see a kid outa school who ain't workin'.

I always wondered what the kids who went to school did for a livin'. I mean, I never went to school. Even before my mother died, we didn't have enough money for all those fancy schoolbooks or new clothes or anythin' like that. Sure, I coulda gone like I was, I guess, with no shoes and holes in my trousers, but my mom was always too proud for that. She didn't want people to know we didn't have any money. I guess I get that from her.

Anyway, I ain't never gone to school. And why would I start now? I'm too old, and it's hard enough tryin' to make a living sellin' papes all day long. It would be even worse if I had to go learn some meaningless junk durin' the day and then sell in the afternoon.

Sometimes I do get a little curious, though. I mean, what could they be learnin' that's so damn important? What could they be learnin' that you can't read about in the papes? That's what I do, and I don't think I'm so dumb. I ain't sayin' I'm the smartest guy in the world or nothin'; if I was, I definitely wouldn't be doin' this. But for a newsie, I'm pretty smart. Some of us don't even know how to read. I guess I'm one a' the lucky ones. Well, I was when I was little, when the older newsies at the lodgin' house taught me how. Now they've all moved on and just about everyone I know in the lodgin' house now knows how to read. Yea, I guess I ain't as special as I like to think I am.

So back to the whole school thing. I know that David used to go, and I've thought about askin' him what it was like, but I don't think I'm gonna. Me and him ain't that close, and... I don't know, maybe he'd make fun a' me or somethin'. Okay, that don't really sound like him, but I like to keep to myself, and I don't think I want anyone knowin' what I think about sometimes. When I do let people know, I get smacked in the face, so it's better just to keep quiet, even around people I consider to be family. That's what I think, anyway.

I did hear, though, that David don't even wanna go back to school. He's thinkin' about becomin' a newsie full time, like us. Now that's just stupid. And I thought he was the brains a' the operation. If that's true, then why's he bein' so dumb? I know, I just said that goin' back to school was kinda meaningless, but if you _can _go, why wouldn't ya at least try it out for a little while, try to be better than the street trash people think we are?

What the kid really needs is a wake-up call. Maybe spendin' a couple a' days as me would change his mind. I know it would change mine if I had a choice. But I know he won't listen to me. He'll do what he wants to do 'cause he's got a nice family and actual options, so he's gonna go and screw that up, 'cause people with options always do. I hate that.

It's like Jack. He coulda done so many things. He coulda even really become a scab if he wanted to. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that he didn't, but it was an option he had. And then afterward, he got a ride from Teddy Roosevelt himself to the train yards. He coulda booked it the hell outa this crummy city, but he came back. I still don't really know why. I know he got together with David's sister, Sarah, but is that the only reason he came back? I mean, sure, she's pretty and all, but is it really worth it?

I hope he didn't come back because of us. That would just make me feel guilty, 'cause he coulda had a much better life. And we coulda gone on without him. We'd be bummed for a good while, but everyone has to bounce back some time, and I know we woulda. I just wish he's given us the chance to let him go, so at least one of us coulda had somethin' better. Maybe it woulda made this life more bearable, knowin' things like that can happen. Knowin' that we don't just gotta stay here until we die. 'Cause without that thought, things can get real depressing real quick.

Someone smashin' right into me stops my thinkin', which kinda gets me annoyed 'cause I'm not too depressed yet, but I get over it and try to go around the guy. I ain't gonna make a big deal out of it, you know, 'cause in the market place, people bump into ya all the time. But the guy doesn't move, so I look up, and his breath hits me like a wall, smellin' a' cheap liquor and cigarettes. I don't even have to see his face to know who he is.

I don't think I mentioned before that my father still lives in the city, and I run into him occasionally. By runnin' into, I mean he sees me and I run away as fast as I can. I ain't no wimp or nothin', but when I see my dad it's like I'm twelve years old again, waitin' for him to fetch the horse whip from the closet to beat me with. So here I am, that little twelve year old kid cowerin' in front of my old man that I ain't talked to in five years.

I almost think he doesn't recognise me by the confused way he's lookin' at me, but before I can quietly slip away while he's in his drunken kinda daze, he grabs the collar of my jacket and hauls me away from the market place. All the while I'm strugglin' and kicking and hittin' him, but it's like he don't even feel pain no more. Maybe all that whiskey's startin' to mess with his brain.

When we get to an alley, he throws me against a brick wall. I'm lucky I'm even standin' from that kinda throw. I wasn't expectin' him to be so strong, 'cause it looks like he's gained a lot a' weight from drinkin', but he's solid as an oxe and lookin' like he means business. His face is all red and he's breathin' real hard, his fists clenched like he's gonna take a swing at me next. I don't know, maybe he's gonna. I seem to be everybody's favorite punching bag today.

The urge to run away comes at me again, but he's not a small guy, and I got a feeling if I tried, those meaty fists would come in contact with me, and I really don't want that. Before I can think up somethin' smarter, he starts talkin' to me.

"Johnny! You're comin' home with me, boy." Jesus, even his voice makes me cringe, the way he says my name. I ain't been called that in years, and if someone's gonna say it, I don't want it to be this old bastard. But even though nobody else would get away with this without gettin' soaked, I'm sittin here leanin' against the side a' the building even though my shoulder's hurtin' like hell, just waitin' for him to either kill me or leave me alone. Unfortunately, he don't do either a' those things. He stomps forward and grabs a hold a' my ear, makin' me yelp.

"You hear me, boy!" He slams his hand against my chest and I jerk back into the wall, this time crackin' my head against the brick. For a minute, all I can see is black with little white dots floatin' around, and I'm thinkin' I'm in real trouble. If I can't even see, how am I gonna get away?

Shakin' my head a bit kinda clears everythin', even though it gives me a headache, and I pull my hat down do it'll stay on, standin' up straighter. My teeth are clenched so hard they hurt and my fingernails are diggin' into my palms, but the pain kinda feels good right now. It keeps me knowin' where I am and that I need to pay real close attention.

"I ain't a little kid anymore," I say. My voice is kinda shaky though, and I'm wonderin' if that's the reason for what happens next, or it's because of what I said. But the next thing I know, I'm face to face with the ground, the side a' my head throbbin' so bad it feels like one of Race's horses kicked me right in the eye.

If you've never been hit in the eye, let me tell ya, it's the worst feelin' in the world. Not the good kinda pain that makes you pay attention, but the godawful kind that can distract ya from just about anythin'. I swear, if the city were destroyed by a big earthquake or somethin' right at this minute, I would miss it on account a' me tryin' to keep my eye socket connected to my face.

So there I am, hand over my eye like a bum while tryin' to anticipate any more blows headed my way. When I can see again, at least outa my remainin' good eye, I can tell he's comin' at me again, but not to smack me around. He's really plannin' on takin' me back home.

At this thought, the worst thing that could ever happen to me runnin' through my head so fast it's like lightning, I guess my instincts took over 'cause I kicked out as hard as I could at the hand that was comin' back towards me. I must have connected with somethin', 'cause he swore real loud and stumbled back against the other wall, givin' me the time to scramble up off the ground and run back into the market place full a' those bustlin' people that are real good to get lost in.

As I keep walkin', my hand still clutchin' my beat up head, I think about what just happened, even though I don't really want to. I'm thinkin' that maybe I shoulda listened to him at least, see what his problem was. Maybe he needed help or somethin'. Maybe he was dyin' a' some horrible disease and he wanted to tell me. Maybe it was my fault 'cause I hadn't been there to take care of him.

But then, as I'm thinkin' these things, Specs's voice comes into my head, tellin' me not to be so self deprecatin', that it's annoying. He's told me before that it means I blame myself for a lot a' things that happen to me. See, I don't think I do that, at least not much, but he says I do, and that I gotta stop.

So this ain't my fault. And my father went and hit me for no good reason, so I had no choice but to get outa there, right? I don't care what he wanted from me, 'cause right now I'm gone, I don't need him anymore. Even if he does need help, I coulda used some help all my life, but he never gave me nothin'.

No matter how many times I tell myself this, I'm still gettin' in this real rotten mood, thinkin' about him. He got no right to do this to me. Even when I can't see him anymore he's there, in the back a' my head where I don't want him. Sometimes I don't think I'll ever get rid of him, just 'cause of this stupid brain a' mine; it won't let things go. I wish he could at least kick the bucket or somethin' so at least I won't have to worry about runnin' into him all the time. 'Cause I guess now every time he sees me he's gonna come at me like he did today. I know that's probably a real terrible thing to hope for, him dyin', but when it comes to my dad, I can't help it. I don't feel like gettin' soaked every time I go out in the mornin' to sell papes.

What I could really use are some a' those guys who follow real important people around so they don't get beat up or killed or nothin'. But, like all the other good stuff, they're only for the people that everyone knows. I bet that Horace Greeley guy had people followin' him around, ready to take a bullet for him even though they probably weren't even friends or nothin'. The important people don't make friends with the guys doin' stuff for 'em, 'cause they aren't important. They're just workin' for the important guy.

See, there's different classes a' people, and those classes don't make friends outside their own class. I don't know why, it's just the way things work, I guess. I don't like the classes, 'cause I'm at the very bottom, just above the dirt on the ground. Maybe I would like it better if I was one a' the ones in the middle or at the top, but I don't think I'll ever know. I hate that I'll never know.

I get to a less crowded spot where there are some benches and I sit down, still tryin' to look out for anyone else who might want a piece a' me. There seem to be a lot today. I pull my hand back from my face and it's all bloody. The bastard was wearin' a bunch of rings when he cleaned my clock. I can feel the scraped along my cheek startin' to swell already. Add this to the beating I got from the Delanceys this mornin', I must look like complete shit by now. Great.

At least none of 'em are too deep, so I'll look normal again in about a week or two. Still, if I coulda avoided this whole experience, I would look normal enough now. Groaning, I take off my hat and scratch my head a bit, mussing my hair up.

I hope I don't got lice, 'cause my head's been itchin'. I hate those damn things. They're annoying and they spread like wildfire. I swear, if I do end up havin' 'em, I'm gonna find whoever gave 'em to me and... well, I'm not sure yet, but it'll be unpleasant. My eye's hurtin' too much for me to think clearly right now. Maybe that's a good thing, 'cause all thinkin' ever does is get me in a bad mood.

After the poundin' in my head ain't so bad anymore, I get up and get lost in all the people again, tryin' to make my way back toward the lodgin' house. The sky's gettin' darker so I know some of the younger newsies will be there. Maybe one of 'em can give me a dime for Kloppman so I don't have to sleep outside.

I know it sounds bad, takin' money from a little kid like that, but you'd be surprised how many papes a cute face can sell. Especially one that can play sick real good, like David's brother Les did. I remember back when I was a little kid like that I could sell at least thirty papes a day, easy. And it's not like I wouldn't pay 'em back. I'll get fifty papes tomorrow so it'll even everythin' out.

Maybe tomorrow I can have somethin' more to eat besides some measley pieces of bread. I mean, sure, I'm grateful for that and all, but if those nuns are really doin' God's work and everythin' like they say they're doin', wouldn't they have an unlimited supply of anything they wanted? 'Cause they're supposed to be God's favorites. Why don't he take care of the ones who do so much for him, but then gives all the famous bastards like Pulitzer and Hearst whatever they want? I don't understand it. I guess he don't work that way. Maybe he likes to put the people that really care about what he has to say through tests and stuff, so he knows it ain't a fluke. I mean, I'd get that, but why does he have to give good things to bad people in the meantime? I hate that.

'Cause maybe if God did nice things for me, I would really believe in him, and maybe even like him some. Right now I don't even know if he's really up there, or those nuns are just makin' something up to make themselves feel better. It's like when you're little and you wake up in the middle of the night and it's all pitch black so you can't even see your hand if you're wavin' it in front a' your face. And then you think you hear somethin', but it's ten times scarier than it would be in the daytime 'cause you can't see nothin'. So you pull the covers up over your head and you feel better right off, even though it's still so dark, 'cause you're thinkin' nothing can get you while you're under there. You still believe this even though deep down you know it's not true. That might not make sense, but it's how I think. God's like somethin' people hide behind so they feel protected, even if they know it ain't real.

Anyway, I don't know if I believe in all that. I just believe in what I'm doin', which ain't much, but it's kept me alive for this long so I might as well keep doin' it. You know what's weird, though? Mush does the same exact thing I do every day, but he really believes there is a God, and that if we're all good, we'll all go to heaven. I think he musta gone to church or somethin' before he started doin' this stuff. That was before his parents died, though. I don't know, if it were me, I woulda stopped believin' all that bullshit the second they kicked it.

But Mush has always been a little weird, laughin' all the time about stupid stuff and actin' kinda, uh, what's that word... naive. Like he don't know much about anythin'. He always sees the good in people before lookin' for the bad. I don't even know if he looks for the bad. Kinda like a little kid. Maybe I was like that once, but I know I ain't now. Don't get me wrong, Mush is a good guy. He's just so different from me that I have trouble understandin' him sometimes.

Oh well, he can believe what he wants to believe. If it gets him through the day, then that's all that matters, right? That's what I believe in, as long as gettin' through the day don't mean killin' anybody or nothin' bad like that. I ain't met anyone like that, so I don't think I have to worry about it. At least 'till someone gets through the day by killin' me. I don't know, maybe I could thank the guy, if I got the chance. Sometimes I think dying would be a better alternative to my life.

See, that's the kinda stuff everyone says I should stop thinkin' about. That was when I told people what I thought, just to get it off my chest, you know? 'Cause sometimes it's nice to have someone to talk to. But if I'm just gonna get harrassed for thinkin', then I won't open my mouth no more, at least about important stuff. That's what I decided a while ago. That's why I don't talk much to anybody. I ain't dumb, I'm just thinkin'. Since when can't a guy keep to himself without bein' bothered 'cause of it? I hate that I can't think without gettin' made fun of.

I mean, I ain't sayin' all the guys at the lodgin' house are like that, like ready to make fun a' ya all the time. It's not real bad stuff either, just jokin' around, but most of 'em just don't get bein' serious for once. Even Jack is hard to get through to, even though he had enough in him to get the whole strike thing going and keep it going. Sure, I can kid around just like the next guy, but I ain't like that all the time, so that's why I don't talk much.

Sometimes I wonder if it'd be easier talkin' to a girl, 'cause they seem to have that whole sensetive, listening thing down pretty good from what I've heard. I've seen 'em in some a' those flickers, and they seem kinda nice, a lot different from the guys. Even though I don't know Medda as well as Jack or nothin', I've seen her doin' her shows, and she's nice and all. But I got a feelin' I would get sick a' all the stuff they do. Like, they always want attention and are simperin' and whinin' all over ya. At least, that's what some of 'em do in the flickers. Maybe that ain't real, I don't know. But they must get those ideas from real life, right? So I'm bettin' some of the girls are like that.

Maybe I'll ask Jack some day, 'cause he has Sarah. I would ask her myself, but somethin' tells me you're not supposed to go and ask a girl that, 'cause it'd be rude or somethin', even though I wouldn't be tryin' to be. There's that thing again, where ya can't say what you mean on account of other people judgin' you. I don't understand why nobody can say what they mean.

I guess some people say bad things, but that don't mean everybody's gonna say bad things. But everyone seems to just assume that whatever's gonna come outa your mouth is gonna be somethin' they don't want to hear. I hate when people assume, 'cause it's always unfair to someone. I guess there's no winnin' either way.

All this thinkin' is makin' my head throb again, not to mention the walking I'm doin', and I'm startin' to get that kinda sick feeling in my stomach you get with headaches, and topped with havin' no food in me, I really don't feel that good. Great, what I really need is to upchuck right in the middle a' these people streamin' past me. It ain't like that's never happened before, with all the drunks and stuff in this town, but I hate throwin' up, especially in front of people 'cause it makes me look like an idiot. I hate lookin' like an idiot even more than I hate throwin' up. But not by much.

It's not real easy gettin' to the side of the street in the market place at this time a' night 'cause everyone's tryin' to get home, but I manage it. I'm able to sit on the steps of a building, and I have to wipe my forehead again 'cause I've got kinda sweaty from all the walkin', and I'm breathin' hard like that fat guy who ripped me off this morning.

Maybe lyin' in that puddle had been a bad idea. Well, I know it'd been a bad idea to begin with, but maybe it's gettin' me real sick. Now that I think about it, my clothes are still kinda damp from that freezing water. Maybe I shoulda gone to the lodgin' house right away, even though Kloppman was gonna yell at me. Hell, he's gonna yell at me anyway, I shoulda gone back. Remember me tellin' you that I ain't that dumb? Well, I'm not, but sometimes I don't think a' the right things.

Well, I know there ain't nothin' I can do about it now, so I just take some deep breaths to calm my stomach, even though air in New York's probably not the best air for ya, but I don't got much of a choice. So even though people are all around me, I'm beginnin' to feel better. At least, I don't think I'll become reaquainted with the coffee I took from those nuns this morning, so that must be a good sign. So I figure, as long as I'm not gonna hurl right this second, I might as well get up again. It's really gonna be no use just sittin' on my butt all night.

I get up off the steps of the buildin' and I'm about to head down to the lodgin' house when I see this little boy across the street from me. He's lookin' my way, and when I see him, he gives me this real big smile, showin' two missin' front teeth. Jesus, the kid couldn't a' been more than six years old, and even though I look like I've been through hell and back, he's smilin' right at me, and I can't help but smile back.

Right now, everything feels okay again, just 'cause a' that one smile, 'cause it's just for me and no one else, and I can't remember the last time someone smiled at me when they weren't makin' fun a' me or somethin'. It feels real nice, bein' smiled at like I am right now.

But then the smile's gone, and there's someone grabbin' at the kid and hittin' him in the face and the head. I can't hear what the guy's sayin'. I can't hear much a' anything anymore 'cause somethin' just fills my head, somethin' like anger but a lot more intense, and I can't stop it. I'd thought I'd gotten over seein' my father, 'cause he didn't mean nothin' to me anymore, but I guess I was wrong.

I'm watchin' this kid getting beaten and watchin' myself getting beaten in my head, and I want to kill the guy. I don't know how or anythin' like that. I just know that I'll do anythin' to get my smile back.

Before I even know what I'm doin', I'm across the street. I yank the guy away from the kid as hard as I can and pull back my fist, punchin' him in the face with all my fury and hatred and frustration backin' it up. When he's on the ground my hand feels a little numb, but I figure as long as I'm not in any real pain yet, I should keep goin', 'cause I ain't done with this guy yet. Before he can get up, I'm on him, punchin' with everything I have in me, which is a lot, considerin' the day I've had.

I feel his nose break against my knuckles but I don't stop. He stops strugglin' and goes limp but I don't stop. His blood is smearing across our flesh, makin' my hand slide, but I don't stop. It just feels so good, because I know he deserves it, and for once, one a' the bad guys is gettin' what he deserves.

Every time my fist connects with his face, I see myself beating on Pulitzer, on Horace Greeley, on all the ones who have good things but shouldn't have 'em, on my dad for treatin' me like shit. All a' those things are runnin' through my head, until I'm outa thoughts. I'm outa energy, I'm just feeling nothing.

When I'm finally back to myself, I'm able to get up and see that most of the people had gathered around to watch the show, but thankfully no bulls. I don't know how I woulda explained this. So much for not drawin' attention to myself.

Still not thinkin' real clearly, I turn around, lookin' for that little boy who gave me that smile. Maybe it's back, now that the bastard is down for the count, but when I find him, he ain't smilin' at me anymore. He's lookin' at me like you would look at the monster under your bed. I hate that look.

I don't want to be the monster under the bed. I want to be the one to make it go away. But as he's lookin' at me, he backs up and starts to cry, and my chest tightens. I am the monster. I'm one a' the bad guys.

I don't even bother lookin' around me at all, at all the people starin' at me. I just start runnin' as fast as I can away from here. I wanna leave that look behind, too. That look the little boy gave me. But my brain likes to hold onto things I don't want it to hold onto, so it's there, and I'm feelin' worse and worse by the second. Why is it that no matter what, we always end up bein' what we hate the most? I don't know if that's true for everyone, but it sure seems to be shapin' up that way for me.

Finally, I can't run anymore. My chest is heavin' and it feels like fire is burnin' in my veins. If you've ever run 'till you really can't run anymore, you'll know what I'm talkin' about. It's one of the worst feelings in the world. Especially if someone's chasin' ya 'cause you have to stop and they'll most likely pummel you.

Right now, though, all I'm bein' chased by are my own thoughts, and I can't lose 'em as easily as I could the Delanceys. It's really too bad, 'cause I'd rather face their fists than myself any day. I think anyone would say that's a bad sign.

So even though I feel like I'll never get far enough away from this goddamn place, I can't run no more so I half collapse into the nearest alley. I end up slippin' on some ice and landin' on my knees, which hurts like a son of a bitch, especially for the one that was already scraped up from my fall this mornin'. I want to get up, but I just don't seem to have the energy after all that runnin', so I just lean my head against the brick, my hat fallin' to the ground, but I don't care. I don't care about nothin' anymore.

Like my fingers and toes, my whole brain's gone kinda numb, and I don't hate the feelin' that much until the whole day and everythin' about it comes crashin' down over me in this huge wave, like that ocean that's somewhere out east that people talk about sometimes. It's real overwhelming and it's kinda hard to breathe 'cause I'm thinkin' of a bunch a' things all at once, like that look the little kid gave me, and I'm pressin' my hands to my head, tryin' to keep my brain from exploding and splattering all over the buildin'. I've just had such a bad day and I can't run anymore and everythin's buildin's up, I just start to laugh.

Remember when I said sometimes my brain don't run on all four cylinders? Well, I'm havin' one a' those days. See, I ain't cried in years, so I'm not gonna start now. But when everythin's just so bad I don't know what to do with myself anymore, I start laughin'.

Today I can't even stop, and even though I still can't breathe from all the runnin' I just did, I'm whooping and wheezin' and bein' so loud I wonder if people are stoppin' to stare at me, but I don't care. Laughin' is better than cryin' any day, and if I stop laughin' I might start bawlin' like a baby.

When I feel tears in my eyes and my ribs are startin' to hurt like crazy, I force myself to stop, even though hysterical little bursts come outa me every so often as I'm sittin' here, swipin' my sleeve across my eyes and sniffin', hoping that don't mean I am startin' to cry now. 'Cause now I can see where I am, and that's only a ways from the lodgin' house, and if one a' the guys happened to catch me sobbin' like a little girl who dropped her candy in the dirt, they'd never let me live it down.

But I ain't cryin', and my bad day is still there in my head, provin' that I couldn't laugh it all away like I wanted to. Jesus, what's the use a' havin' fits of insanity if they don't make all the bad stuff go away? No there's a million dollar question right there.

I'm still sittin' on the ground, debatin' whether I really wanna get up or not, when I hear my name bein' called out to me.

"Hey, Skittery! You alright?"

I turn around and see Blink come runnin' up to me, a real concerned look on his face. For some reason that sets me off laughin' again. It might a' been a leftover from before, or the way he sounds like he actually cares if I'm okay or not, I'm not sure which. But I just shake my head and shrug, wipin' my bloody hands on my pants before he notices and tryin' not to grin like a moron.

"I'm great, Kid! Thanks for askin'!" I reply. Even to me that sounds strange and borderline mocking, but he don't seem to care as he helps me up off the cold ground.

"You don't look so good. Have you had a few, Skitts?" he asks, a genuinely puzzled look on his face, and I laugh again.

"Nah, come on. Let's go home."

He don't make any more comments about nothin' as we're walkin', and I'm grateful. I just spent a good ten minutes gettin' all mucked up on the ground again, thinkin' about this goddamn awful day, and now all I wanna do is leave it behind with that crazy laughter so I don't have to think no more. 'Cause when I think, especially about how shitty things have been lately, I get real depressed, and I'm sick a' bein' depressed.

We get to the lodgin' house and I remember about the four cents I owe Kloppman for the night, the four cents I don't have. And of course this is one a' those nights the old man don't go to bed early, 'cause there he is behind his desk, readin' the paper. I wonder how he gets the pape. He don't get it from one of us, 'cause if he did I would know, and I don't ever see him outside while we're sellin'. Maybe he goes and buys one right from the distributer when we're all gone. Anyway, that ain't important.

So there he is behind his desk, and he looks up when we come in, a big grin on his face. "Heya boys! How'd sellin' go?"

"Eh, it was alright," Blink says before I can open my mouth. "I don't care what Jack says, though. If the headlines are bad, there ain't a newsie in the world who can sell a hundred papes." He digs around in his pocket and tugs out four pennies, droppin' 'em on the desk.

The old man looks at me expectantly. I'm wonderin' what kind of story I could make up off the top a' my head that would be convincin' enough to make him let me stay without payin', and I open my mouth with that same old hope what whatever comes out is gonna be helpful, but before I can say anything I sigh real loudly, grimacing. I realize I'm so sick a' lyin' to save my ass that I ain't gonna do it no more. Well, I'm probably gonna have to do it some time, like while I'm hawkin' headlines, but I won't right now. It just ain't worth it. Not today.

"I don't got the money, Kloppman," I say, settin' my jaw and starin' him right in the eye. His bushy eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head.

"And why's that?" he asks, usin' his stern voice that he keeps locked up somewhere to use for occasions like this. I hate that voice.

"Ah, it don't matter." Blink takes four more pennies from his pocket and gives 'em to Kloppman before I can even react. The man looks at both of us for a few seconds before nodding and turnin' back to his pape. Blink nods toward the stairs and we both take off, stompin' up to the bunks.

"Hey, what'd ya do that for?" I ask him before he opens the door. He turns, with that brilliant smile he always has no matter what's happenin'. Some days it's annoying to no end. Today it ain't so bad, but that might just be 'cause he paid for me. He shrugs, takin' off his hat.

"Why not? I mean, you woulda done the same for me." He turns back and opens the door, leavin' me to think about what he'd said. Would I have done the same? I don't even have to think about it, 'cause I know I woulda. It's just the way we are, ya know? I mean, I know I ain't as innocent seemin' as Mush or as happy as Blink or nothin' like that, but I'm still a nice guy, ya know? Don't let no one tell ya otherwise, not even me. I'd do anythin' for these guys. I'm just kinda surprised they seem willin' to do that for me. There's that damn self deprecatin' thing again. I really gotta stop doin' that.

So I follow Blink into the room. Everyone's sittin' around playin' a poker game, even Race and Jack, who are known for stayin' out later than anyone. I'm kinda hopin' no one notices me, but Tumbler comes at me, screechin' my name. Jesus, you know, I like the kid 'n all, but sometimes I just wanna shut that big mouth a' his. Everyone turns to look at me as Tumbler tugs on my jacket.

"Heya, Skittery. Ya look like shit!" Race calls out, and everyone laughs as he takes the cigar he's been chompin' on outa his mouth and licks his lips. I nod my head, and my eye starts hurtin' again, as if 'cause someone mentioned it, it remembers to start botherin' me like it had been before.

"Yea, Skitts, what happened to ya?" Jack asks, lyin' some cards down on the table and glancin' at me. I just shrug and sit down on a bottom bunk close to the table they're playin' at, runnin' my fingers through my hair. Tumbler climbs into my lap and takes my hat from my hand, fiddlin' with it.

"I dunno. Hey, you know the Delanceys are back in town?"

"Ha, the Delanceys did this to ya?" Itey cuffs me in the arm and Snipeshooter laughs, but I wave his hand away.

"Nah, I can take care a' myself against the Delanceys. I was just wonderin' if you guys knew." I don't bother tellin' 'em they were the cause a' my ripped pants and fat lip.

"We didn't know. I guess it's good we know now, huh, boys?" Race says around his cigar, and everyone sniggers, Dutchy clappin' him on the back. Gee, so glad I could be the first to know they were back so I could warn all you guys. I sigh, rubbin' my hand over the good part a' my face.

"Hey Race, could ya spot me two bits for tomorrow? I got nothin' today," I ask, tryin' to change the subject. He shakes his head, this time his eyes not leavin' the cards he has in his hand.

"Sorry, Skitts, I only got enough for forty papes and I gotta use it. I'm tellin' ya, I shouldn'ta bet on that damn horse. Lost a whole two bucks."

"There's gotta be somethin' wrong with your head, Race. If I had two bucks I'd save it for somethin' real good. Not blow it on those stupid horses," Mush says from his bunk, smilin'. Race scoffs and shakes his head.

"That'll get ya nowhere. One a' these days I'm gonna win a whole load a' money, and all a' you'se are gonna be sorry ya doubted me."

"Yea, I'll start bein' sorry when I see that money," Jack laughs. I cough, about to mention bein' too poor to even buy papes again when Specs comes and sits down on the floor beside the bunk I'm sittin' on, handin' me a quarter.

"Hey, thanks, Specs," I say, pocketing the coin and makin' sure there are no holes in my pockets that it could fall out of. He grins at me.

"No problem. I sold by one a' those all girl schools. I guess they were wantin' to see a guy for once, pretty bad too, 'cause all my papes were gone by four o' clock today." He raises his eyebrows, pushin' his glasses farther up his nose. I hear a snort from Blink, who's sittin' on the bunk across from me.

"They musta been pretty desperate to like the looks a' your ugly mug," he says, smirkin' toward him. Specs just rolls his eyes, lookin' back to the poker game.

As I'm sittin' here, I start to go through everythin' that happened today again, even though I thought I'd given it enough time in my brain. But this time I don't feel angry or depressed, and I don't laugh and I don't cry. I'm just sittin' here with all the guys, watchin' the poker game, and I'm done with feelin' sorry for myself. Even though I can't go to Central Park no more, and I'll probably be in a world a' trouble for beatin' on that guy, I don't think about the consequences right this second. I know everyone always tells ya you should think about the consequences of things that you do, and I guess that's true 'cause then maybe you won't go and do somethin' stupid like I did, but that's over now and there ain't nothin' I can do about it. Not tonight.

So right now I'm just gonna think about the things I got, ya know? Sometimes that's a real good thing to do, especially when you're havin' a bad day like mine. Instead a' thinkin' about what's gonna happen tomorrow, I think about now, 'cause that's the only thing keepin' me goin'. So I think about where I am right this second. I'm warmin' up now with the fire goin', and I'm with people who actually might carae about what happens to me.

I mean, Blink hauled me up off the streets with that concerned look a' his and then Specs gave me one a' his hard earned quarters just so I could buy some papes tomorrow. Who would do that for someone they don't care about? I don't want to sound mushy or anythin', I just really appreciate it is all. Knowin' that someone has your back is a real good feelin'. So I got some things, even if it's less than what others might have, like Pulitzer and Hearts and Horace Greeley. Even though I'm goin' to bed hungry tonight, maybe those nuns will be out there tomorrow. I'm always glad to see 'em, even if that whole God thing may still be way over my head.

I'm reminded of another good thing when Tumbler wraps his little arms around my neck and looks up at me. The biggest smile is on his face, and he just looks so happy, that I can't even think about why in the world he looks up to me or what he's gettin' wrong when he tries to be like me 'cause I get so many things wrong. All I can do is look into those eyes that ain't seen much a' anythin' yet, that are still so full a' hope for what he'll become, even though he don't even know it, and a good feelin' just comes over me like it does once in a while. 'Cause even though that other little kid is in the back a' my mind, and I still hate that look he gave me, I just don't do the right things sometimes. That don't make me a bad person, right?

I feel like maybe things won't be so bad after all, 'cause I am cared about, and even after everythin' that's happened today, I got my smile that was just for me. And I love when I'm bein' smiled at just 'cause somone feels like smilin' at me. And all of a sudden nothin' else matters.

I can't help but laugh as that good feelin' bubbles up in me and I ruffle the kid's hair, pattin' him on the back before turnin' back to the card game. Right now, all I care about it tonight, and nothin' ain't that bad tonight. It's been goin' pretty good, as far as my standards go. And besides, I could stop doin' this any time I want to, bein' a newsie, you know? But I don't want to, 'cause then I wouldn't have what I got anywhere else.

Us newsies, we're brothers, and we're there for each other no matter what, and that's the only thing I can really count on. So things ain't that bad. And I like what I am. I like what I do. And no one's gonna tell me to think otherwise, 'cause since when do I listen to what people tell me to do?

Now this is the kinda thinkin' I like, 'cause it don't make me depressed or angry. It kinda makes me hopeful, ya know? Like those little kids lookin' in the candy shop window, like Tumbler. And even though I'm supposed to know better, I like bein' hopeful. It feels better than anythin' in the world. Well, that and bein' smiled at, just because someone wants to smile at me. I love that.


End file.
